


my love, you're the one

by oforamuse



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Happy birthday mickey, M/M, Post Season 10, Season 1, Season 3, Season 8, married, post 5x12, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse
Summary: all the years they’ve lost, all the goodbyes, all the reunions, it’s all led up this.or, five times ian gallagher misses mickey milkovich + one time he doesn't have to.
Relationships: Fiona Gallagher & Ian Gallagher, Ian Gallagher & Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 27
Kudos: 263





	my love, you're the one

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday mickey milkovich, i love you. 
> 
> my short oneshot turned into a 10k monster. 
> 
> as always, big thanks to my loves [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24647437/chapters/59551768) and [jordan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached/pseuds/boneached) \- go read their wonderful wips! but especially to [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086414/chapters/55229047) who has the unfortunate job of beta-ing my stuff and dealing with my dramatics. 
> 
> title take from [i love you, honeybear by father john misty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khk77JHALmU) which i listened to on repeat whilst writing this.

_My love, you're the one I wanna watch the ship go down with._

* * *

**i.**

Fiona wakes him up like normal. 

She shakes his shoulder and tickles the bottom of his feet. He shifts underneath his comforter, her voice low with a whispered, _time to get up, monkey_. 

Their Saturday morning routine. 

Ian groans, wipes at his eyes and stretches out his tired, tight limbs that click and pop, but eventually drags himself out of bed, like normal. 

It’s a little unfair, really, because he _does_ love being a part of a Little League team, but waking up at 6:30am on a Saturday sucks and he casts a longing look over to Carl and Lip’s still very much passed out forms. His brother’s snooze as he pulls on his uniform tiredly, yawning as he does and like normal, Ian has to shove down the automatic creeping sense of jealousy that always kicks in when he’s surrounded by the sounds of his brothers’ slumbering. Ian _knows_ money is tight - Fiona’s even started helping clear out a yard down the clock to pay for his fees - so he’s always gotta be grateful for the stuff he gets cause he _knows_ Little League ain’t cheap. He knows that.

But, he also knows that he would like at least an hour more sleep. 

Being poor sucks. 

He drinks his watered down orange juice and munches on some dry, cardboard like cereal for breakfast, because they’re out of milk, like normal. He tiptoes around Frank passed out open mouthed on the couch, like normal and Ian doesn’t even begin to put a thought into where Monica is - they haven’t seen her in the last few days. Which, unfortunately, is like normal. 

His mom always pops back up after a while. 

Fiona walks him to the playing field, like normal, and drops him off with a kiss to the forehead and a quick, _I’ll see you later_ , like normal. 

It’s only when they’re lining up against the wall and Coach O’Reilly is taking registration that Ian realises that there is something _not_ normal about today.

“We’re down a player- so kids, I’m gonna need you to double up some,” Coach says, clapping his hands together, “We got that game next week-” 

It takes a second as Ian casts his eyes up and down the line of other boys and girls from the neighbourhood, but suddenly it clicks into place. The missing puzzle piece. The thing _not normal_ about today. 

“Where’s Mickey?” Ian whispers to the kid next to him - Jamey St.Davids from 3 blocks over, and he tugs on the other kid’s sleeve, Jamey shakes him off irritably. 

“ _Shhhh_ -” 

Ian’s hand shoots up in an eager attempt to get Coach’s attention. He doesn’t know _why_ Mickey’s absence is bothering him so much - but the team just doesn’t feel… right, without his grumpy comments, grubby face and the smell that only ever seems to float in the air when Mickey’s around. Even just the 5 minutes they’ve been standing in line awaiting roll call seems different. 

Most of the other kids complain about the way Mickey smells or looks - they avoid sitting next to him on the bench or he’s always being picked last when they’re choosing practise teams. Ian doesn’t get the big deal. Sure, Mickey _could_ wash his face before practise - Fiona always makes sure he does, and well, doesn’t his mom _want_ to wash his uniform? More often than not, Mickey’s turned up to practise a week later, still with mud stains on his knees and sweat marks staining his jersey from the session the week before. 

Ian doesn’t quite understand it, who doesn’t want to be clean? He likes getting dirty with Lip when they climb up trees and wrestle in the garden, but he also likes being hosed off by Fiona and forced into the shower afterwards. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, if she’s having one of her _good_ days, even Monica washes his hair underneath the shower-head, scrubbing his scalp with her fingertips until she goes, _looking good baby_ , like she always does. 

Does Mickey’s mom scrub his scalp with her fingertips and whisper, _looking good baby_ , when he’s all clean? 

Ian doesn’t think so. He doesn’t know why she wouldn’t though. 

Mickey’s mom is much younger than Monica. Much younger than any of the rest of the moms in the neighbourhood that turn up to pick their kids up from school or from practise. 

That is if she _remembers_ to pick Mickey up from school or practise. At least once a month or so, Ian leaves practise, hand in hand with Fiona, and Mickey’s still on the field kicking around in the dirt waiting for someone to come get him. 

It makes Ian a little sad. He knows that Mickey has older siblings like he has Fiona and Lip, so he often wonders why they don’t come and get him instead. 

He never thinks about it for too long though, because Fiona will buy him ice cream from the truck they pass on the way home and she’ll tell him all about the boy that she’s in _loooooove_ with that week.

Being older sounds difficult. 

Regardless of what the other kids think though, what they laugh about under their breath whenever he walks by, Ian doesn’t really mind the way Mickey smells. 

It gives him a warm sense of comfort. Like an extra blanket or a warm sweater on a cold day. 

Everything feels a little… _less_ today without it.

Without the smell.

Without...

Coach claps his hands together loudly and it pulls Ian back to practise, away from his daydreams about dirty, smelly boys. 

“Any questions before we start?” Coach asks, adjusting his hat underneath the mid-morning sun. It’s hot, and Ian can feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, “Gallagher, your hand has been up an’ waving for ages, what is it?” 

Ian looks up and down the line, then back to Coach and asks, “Where’s Mickey?” 

Coach pulls a face and shifts himself from foot to foot, then turns to address the whole line of kids, “ _Well_ , after his lil stunt last week, Milkovich is off the team-”

The kids around Ian laugh, and nudge into each other with their elbows, like Coach has just told some uproarious joke that everyone except Ian, seems to get. 

He does remember the ‘stunt’ Mickey pulled last week though, now _that_ was an uproarious joke. 

They’d been playing against a team from the Northside, a bunch of smarmy know-it-all’s with parents who probably hung around the sides every practise and passed out orange slices amongst the team. 

Things had been going _okay_ for most of the morning, but there had been a handful of the kids who wouldn’t wipe the look of… disgust? off of their faces and played with screwed up features and narrow, judgemental eyes. 

One of the kids on the other team, some snooty looking nine year old with glasses that slipped down his face as he played had nudged his teammate and whispered not too quietly, 

“The Southside _stinks._ ”

Then pointed directly at Mickey, who’d been covering third base and that’s when all _hell_ broke loose. 

Ultimately, it ended with Mickey pulling down his pants and pissing on third base. 

Ian had found the whole thing _hilarious,_ like side splitting, stomach hurting, rolling on the floor, hilarious. He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Coach’s face when he realised what was happening and had to scramble and physically drag Mickey off of the field. The best part of it had been the fact that it was a game day, so all of his siblings had been there to witness it, meaning he didn’t even have to retell them all the story when he got home. It was all any of them talked about for the rest of the weekend. 

They did, however, have to call off the rest of the game after that - the Northside parents were _so_ angry, all red faced and stricken - there might as well have been steam coming out of their ears. Ian doubts they’ll be playing that team again anytime soon. 

But kicking Mickey off the team? That’s a little unfair, or at least Ian thinks so. 

It was a _joke_ , and sure, Ian wasn’t about to pull his pants down and piss mid-field, but the other team _had_ been being dicks all morning. So really, they had it coming. 

Mickey was just giving them a Southside welcome. 

Ian was impressed. Mickey had been _brave_. 

Brave for standing up for himself.

Brave for the standing up for the Southside. 

The rest of practise drags, and Ian can’t shake off the feeling of something being missing because Mickey isn’t part of it. Hell, it’s not like Ian ever talks to the other kid, it just… doesn’t feel the same. 

Above all though, he misses Mickey’s smell. It’s really not as bad as everyone makes it out to be. 

“You good? Practise okay?” Fiona says, ruffling his sweaty hair with a quick hand, “Ready for ice cream?” 

That perks him up, the promise of something cold and chocolatey momentarily dispelling the gloom that clouded him over practise. 

It’s only when they’ve gotten their treats - chocolate for Ian and something fruity for Fiona, the same as always - and they’re walking the few blocks back home that the dull mood from earlier sets back in. 

Fiona’s been telling him all about the guy this week - Frankie Geller, who apparently gave her ‘the eyes’ across the Kash and Grab this week and it takes a few minutes or so, but his sister quickly catches on that Ian isn’t responding as enthusiastically as he usually would. 

“You’re quiet,” Lick, “You okay?” Lick. 

“Yeah...” He sighs, and wipes at his sticky mouth. He finished his one a few minutes ago and he’s looking forward to next weekend’s, “Tell me more about Freddy?-” 

“ _Frankie-_ ” Fiona corrects pointedly, her eyes lighting up with glee at Ian’s apparent interest. 

He doesn’t care, really, he just wants something to take his mind off his bad mood. 

“Yeah, Frankie, whatever-” 

Her voice goes all high and her hands wave out excitedly, she grabs at his sleeve and pulls. 

“He smells _so_ good, Ian. Like, really good.” 

“Smells?...”

“Like, fresh grass and pizza, or maybe like, rain-”

“Wait, Fiona,” He looks at her seriously, “Do you, y’know, _like_ someone if you like how they smell?” 

“Oh yeah, _totally_.” Fiona says dreamily, she finishes the last bit of her ice cream then continues, and Ian feels a little like someone’s knocked the wind out of him, “It’s like the first thing you notice.” 

Huh. 

Interesting. 

**ii.**

Ian feels _drunk_. 

Drunk, high, and all those other fuckin’ things people do and take to _feel_ something. 

And yet, he’s taken nothing. He hasn’t even had a smoke. 

There’s a thrumming electricity in his veins and _God_ , he thinks that, maybe, he could fly - if he tried hard enough. Fly out of this bus, out of Chicago, out of the World’s fuckin’ atmosphere. 

Ian floats down the aisle and finds somewhere to sit near the back of the bus, slumping down into the seat in almost a dream like fashion. 

He bites back a sigh, his teeth coming down onto his tongue to hold it in place. 

Is this the shit people write songs about? 

Is this the shit Shakespeare and all those other old fuckers had been talking about? 

Does he finally _get_ it? The stuff he’s been forced to endure for the last few years of English class? 

_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?..._

Ian doesn’t know, he doesn’t know if _this_ is the thing that makes people put pen to paper and create a _world_ but the way that his heart is beating against his chest - is it going to break through the rib cage? - makes him think that it just might be. 

They only spent 45 minutes together. A measly 45 fucking minutes, but Ian drank up every single second and he would’ve sat there for 45 more. 

He lapped up each moment, every crease of Mickey’s forehead, every look of disapproval, every shift against the uncomfortable, plastic chair. It was… perfect, well, as perfect as a visit to someone awaiting their sentencing after being shot by their boss can be, but it was good enough for him. 

They didn’t talk about much, Ian let Mickey ramble, really, but he didn’t care, Ian didn’t _want_ to get a word in. 

He’d be fucking happy to listen to one of Mickey’s rants about juvie for hours. If he knew it wouldn’t annoy Mickey to his core, he’d come back, week after week and listen gleefully to the stories about the _other_ Mick who steals his Jell-o, or the guy with too many tattoos, or how difficult it is to take a shit in peace. 

Ian wants to be around him all the fuckin’ time and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He would’ve sat there all day, phone pressed against his ear just… listening.

Watching. 

Grinning. 

He could feel himself grinning the entire time like a fucking idiot - even after _take your hand off the glass_ , Mickey’s narrow eyes and forced arms length attitude towards him. By the end of it, his cheeks fucking hurt.

Now, Ian sits on the bus back home and despite his already aching cheeks, he keeps grinning.

Does it make him a pussy if he misses Mickey already? 

Misses his face, his voice, his fuckin’... everything. 

He runs a hand down his face, massaging his cheeks in slow circles as he does, then tips his forehead against the window, allowing himself to watch as the city buildings blur by. 

Lip would probably think it does - make him a pussy, that is. He’d call him fuckin’ soft or some shit, and of course, Ian’s not gonna tell him that, he does actually _like_ to maintain some dignity around his older brother but… _fuck_. 

He _does_ miss Mickey already. It’s true. 

45 minutes spent talking to one another through glass and with every mile that this bus gets further and further away from where Mickey’s being held, the urge to jump off and hop on the first bus going back in the opposite direction gets stronger. 

He pulls out the phone he shares with his siblings - Lip had agreed to let Ian take it for the day - in hopes of finding a distraction from the unnerving but rhythmic _thump, thump, thump_ in his chest. 

2 missed calls: Lip. 

**[7:01pm]** _You’re needed tomorrow morning at 7 not 8. Linda._

His stomach drops with dread.

 _Fuck_ , work.

The inevitable wave of reality comes flooding back in. 

With all the shit with his mom going on and getting carried away in the excitement of seeing Mickey, Ian had completely forgotten about actually having to go _back_ to the scene of the crime. 

_Working_ at the scene of the crime. _Working_ with Kash. 

It’s only been a handful of days since the ‘shooting’ and Ian’s not even been back on shift yet, not properly at least. He stopped by last night to talk Kash into putting some money into Mickey’s commissary account - it was the least he could do, Ian thought, but the broken expression on Kash’s face when Ian asked him to do so left his skin feeling itchy and agitated. 

Ian _knows_ he probably should feel bad, like, he _had_ been dating the guy for months, and that _should_ mean something… but honestly? 

He could never see Kash again, and really, that would be okay. 

Ian hopes it almost, a low, guilty hope in his gut that he’ll never have to deal with Kash again. 

It’s unrealistic, with Linda being pregnant and everything, but it’s almost like as soon as he and Mickey hooked up, something ignited in Ian’s belly and ever since then, the only thing on his mind was Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. 

Mickey this. Mickey that. 

He’s stupid. It’s stupid. 

A stupid fuckin’ crush. 

Ian twists his head against the window, giving himself a good view of the road and back to the way they came from. 

Back to Mickey. 

_Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_. 

He feels a lot more juvenile than his fifteen teenage years. The fluttery heart, light headed, bone heavy bullshit that’s taken over and controlling his every move - like some sort of _lust_ demon from hell possessing and feeding off his innocent soul. 

Or maybe, he thinks quietly, this is exactly what a fifteen year old _should_ be feeling about another teenager. 

With a sigh, he pulls out the phone again and fires off a quick reply to Linda, because he knows, deep down, he can’t pussy out over this. 

**[7:32pm]** _ok. I’ll b there._

It’s going to be a long few months. 

**iii.**

Ian flicks the cigarette into the gutter. He thought a smoke would make him feel better, pull himself together a little. He was wrong.

He still feels like shit, in fact, he probably feels _worse_. 

Ian stares up at the _Garden Springs Spa_ sign above the door, the spot he hasn’t moved from for the last few hours, and it feels like the world is fuckin’ crumbling around him. Everything is gray, and not in the literal shitty, concrete built up city kinda gray, but in the sun has fuckin’ gone out and Ian can barely drag himself out of bed kinda gray. 

The plug was pulled on the colour in his life the moment he heard Mandy’s, _well look at Mickey, marrying some whore he knocked up-_

Because that was it. 

Before then, even after That Day, even after the blood Mickey’s father spilled, Mickey’s broken face and the excruciating agony of watching… 

Ian still had hope. Some naive, little hope that he and Mickey could make it through this together-

That the worst was over, that Terry now knew and whilst Ian can’t even think about that day without needing to sit down, he thought that maybe… maybe a wall had come down between them. Maybe _they_ could be the phoenix rising from the ashes of the worst moment in both their lives. 

Because people who go through the worst together, come out the other side together, right?

Yet with one dismissive conversation with Mandy, giving him proof that Ian hadn’t realised he needed - she didn’t know what had happened to them that day, that Mickey hadn’t told her, that maybe it was only him, Mickey, Terry and _Her_ who knew - has pulled the rug out from underneath him.

 _Marriage._

By definition, marriage is the highest form of commitment two people in love can give to one another and Ian feels so sick to his stomach when he thinks about it, there’s the possibility that he might drown in it. 

Love. 

He knows it. He knows it like he knows how to breathe, shit and eat - by this point, it’s second nature to existing. 

He loves Mickey. 

He loves him so fuckin’ much he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

It’s this _thing_ , loving Mickey, he doesn’t know when it started, when it clicked into place, but it’s there. 

It’s there, all this fuckin’ love and yet, Mickey is getting married to someone else. 

To a woman.

To a pregnant woman. 

And the only thing that’s keeping him together right now, the only thing stopping him from lying down on the dirty Chicago streets and never getting back up again is the thought, the _fact_ , that Mickey loves him too.

Ian _knows_ Mickey loves him too. 

He listened to him and he kissed him.

Underneath the surface, below _don’t fuck with me_ and the scathing remarks, deep, deep down, Ian knows Mickey loves him. 

He knows, he knows, he knows. 

You don’t feel the shit he feels if you’re not in love. 

The _I’m on top of the world_ happiness, the stomach aching laughter, the gettin’ high off just being around one another.

The pain. The fear. The anger. 

It’s _love_. 

It’s all love and he _knows_ Mickey feels it too, because how can he not?

That night had been the best fuckin’ night of his life. 

The best fuckin’ night.

If he could pause time, if he could go back and pause time, he’d live in that night forever. 

He’d live in the greasy pizza rolls they ate with their bare fingers, in the damp end of the cigarette they shared between their lips, and in the pin drop silence that fell when Ian reached for Mickey’s buckle and they finally realised that they could bang as for as long or be as loud as they wanted to. 

It was an evening for _them_ , and even if getting Mickey to admit it would be as easy as pulling teeth, they both knew it, they both felt it. 

The corners of Ian’s mouth twitch upwards when he thinks about it - there’s nothing he can do to stop it, so there’s not a point in trying, no matter how shit he feels right now. It’s a natural reaction. 

Even when he remembers the nightmare that came afterwards - and he’ll never forget it, because something was taken from him that day and he’ll never get it back - but even then, it’s all he can do when he thinks about all the fuckin’ comfortable _love_ between the two of them that night. 

A small, private little smile for their small, private little love. 

They slept for 2 hours at the most, passed out stark naked on the top of the covers of Mickey’s bed, curled ever so slightly towards each other - not touching and definitely not spooning, but close. Closer than they ever have been.

Close bodies, close hearts, close souls.

And when they woke in the early hours of the morning and went for another round, Ian felt fuckin’ _alive_ and he knows, in that moment, Mickey did too. 

Ian fuckin’ cherishes those hours, those handful of hours they spent together, and he keeps them so close to his chest that he might as well get them tattooed into skin. 

It was the calm before the storm. The calm before all hell broke loose and his still beating, still pumping, still _thumping thumping thumping_ heart was pulled from his body and ripped into shreds. 

The best fuckin’ night of his life was followed by the worst fuckin’ morning, and now Mickey’s getting married, they’re over and his jaw aches from Mickey’s kick almost as much as his heart does. 

The worst part about it though, the part that makes Ian hate himself, is that he _misses_ him. 

Ian misses him because he loves him, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him.

He loves Mickey and Mickey loves him and they should be going through this together, and there’s an ache in the centre of his forehead where he can’t understand why they’re not. 

He can’t fuckin’ understand why Mickey’s doing this. 

Why would Mickey marry this woman, Her, She, The Russian and give into his father’s reign of terror, when Ian is _here_.

Why isn’t Ian enough for him? Why isn’t the shit they fuckin’ feel for each other enough for him? 

The longing, aching, swirling shit in his chest, his gut, his _heart_. 

He knows Mickey feels it too.

Ian felt it in the jealousy over Ned, in the quick press of lips against his, in the soft smile and shy, _you shove ‘em in my ass and pull ‘em out real slow._

Fuck it. He’s felt it since the beginning too. 

In the beers they shared under the dugouts in the moonlight, in the worried look on Mickey’s face and _the i’ll meet you there in twenty_ , in the fondness he tried so fuckin’ hard to hide every single time they’d see each other again after Mickey got out of juvie. 

He felt it in the foot to his jaw and the fist in his stomach. 

_You love me and you’re gay._

Why isn’t feeling that enough? 

People who feel _this_ shit don’t get married to someone, to a _woman,_ don’t throw this away, because their dad tells them to. 

Ian doesn’t understand. 

He’s been here for hours now, just… staring at the store front, watching people come and go. His phone’s buzzed a few times. Lip, probably. Mandy, maybe. 

Not Mickey. 

It will never be Mickey. 

Ian’s left 15 messages on Mickey’s voicemail so far and sent unanswered text, after unanswered text, after unanswered text, after unanswered text. 

He slips his hand into his pocket and clenches his fist tightly around his phone. Every single unanswered text, every single call left to go to voicemail makes him want to squeeze it harder and let it shatter into a thousand pieces. 

He won’t though. Just in case. 

That silly, stupid, foolish fuckin’ flame of hope. 

Ian should probably go home soon, everything about this is so disgustingly pathetic - standing here for hours, staring at his lover’s _wife to be_ ’s workplace because he can’t bring himself to move. Every single bone in his body feels too weak and he’s terrified that his knees will completely buckle underneath him if he even makes a step to go. 

He swallows and searches his pockets for another cigarette.

 _She_ left hours ago. 

She. 

**iv.**

Ian dreams of him sometimes. 

Whether or not he lets himself actually admit it, lets himself look at it face on and acknowledge it _,_ lets himself accept it. 

Accept the fact that he thinks of him all the fuckin’ time.

Misses him all the fuckin’ time.

Dreams of him all the fuckin’ time. 

Mickey’s like a shadow almost, flickering through the murky images Ian’s subconscious conjures up whilst he sleeps, darting in, out and between the columns of his mind. 

They go from being young, to teens, to adults. Sometimes Yev’s there too, sometimes not. 

Ian avoids the kid as much as possible, even when Svetlana shacks up with Veronica and Kev, he stays out of their way. 

There’s too much to unpack there. Too much left… unfinished. 

Too many moments in the past that Ian _needs_ to let go of. 

Sometimes the dreams are hot, fast fucks and Ian wakes up more often than not with a hard on he has to take care of in the bathroom before anyone else in the house wakes up. He has to bite back the tears as he comes because _fuck_ , he should be over this by now. 

And each time afterwards, he wipes at his eyes and cleans himself off with a tissue or a wet cloth and attempts to fall back into his morning routine. His hands shake as he twists on the shower and reaches for the soap, almost as though he knows that no matter how hard he scrubs, Ian’s unable to wipe down the feeling of dirty shame from underneath his skin. 

Sometimes the dreams are softer. An echo of the gentle, quiet moments that they shared together, the ones that were so far and few between the chaos and drama they had been dealing with on top of everything else, but held so much heavy and cherished love. A brush of a tattooed knuckle against his cheek. A kiss to the forehead, neck and chest. His voice. His laugh. 

Ian wakes up from those sort of dreams with an ache in his heart and the heavy, heavy weight of guilt sitting on his chest, like a brick that threatens to crack through his ribcage and crush his lungs. 

Those dreams are the hardest to come back from. The hardest to pretend are normal, restful nights. 

It shouldn’t still be like this. Ian knows that. Ian _knows_ he chose to leave Mickey behind, to move on, to change. 

He couldn’t be _that_ person anymore. The one that threatened to wrap his thin fingers around Mickey’s ankle and drag him _down, down, down_ to the ocean floor, filling up his lungs and drowning him in Ian’s own self hatred and fucked up life. 

But. 

He can’t help it. 

He can’t help it and there’s a part of him that hates himself for it. 

But. 

There’s a part of him, somewhere deep, down inside, that wakes up every morning after one of those dreams and thinks, even for just a moment, about looking up the route to the prison where Mickey’s being held. About getting in the car and driving over there. About seeing that face. 

About stitching that part of his heart back together and allowing his blood to be pumped freely around his body once again. Filling up his lungs with the sound of Mickey’s voice and being able to _breathe_ for the first time in years. 

Ian wants to fucking _breathe_ so badly. 

“You okay?” Fiona asks, tapping her fingers against his coffee mug in an attempt to get his attention, “Things good with Caleb?” 

Ian realises, blinking slowly as he’s brought back into the room that he must’ve been staring out to space for at least the last few minutes. He doesn’t remember drifting off, but his dry eyes and the way in which Fiona’s looking at him tells him all he needs to know. 

What he does remember though, what he’s been trying to shake all morning, is last night. 

Last night he had one of those soft dreams. 

Skin on skin. Gentle voices. Kisses. Hope. 

Love.

He’s felt uneasy all morning because of it, and even more so, felt uneasy about the urge in his bones to go back to bed and slip back into that world he’d created. The world that he lost. The world that he doesn’t deserve. 

The world that he’s tried so tirelessly to shove to the back of his mind, set on fire and destroy. He wanted to watch it burn. He wanted to watch _Mickey_ burn. 

Because if Mickey burned, if their entire life together and the world that they fought so long and hard for was nothing more than a smouldering pile of ashes, then Ian had no guilt, Ian had no shame, Ian had no regrets. 

But that’s the thing about giving your heart to someone. 

If Mickey burns, Ian burns too. 

Ian gave Mickey his heart when he was 15 and in turn, Mickey gave Ian his. 

And no matter how much time passes, how many boyfriends come between, how many prescription bottles he can empty and refill, that’s never going to change. 

Caleb is... _was_ a mistake. 

A silly, ill thought out, mistake. 

A rebound, Ian thinks it’s called. Someone to get under and trick himself into thinking that he’s okay and over it _,_ he’s medicated, got himself a new boyfriend and a new job that he actually _loves_ , that he doesn’t need to think about tattooed knuckles, blue eyes and ... _will you? wait?_

And he’d been fine pretending the last few months, floating through his days with a sense of accomplishment, a feeling that he hasn’t felt in almost a _year._ He was important again, he had a purpose. 

Being an EMT gave him a purpose and that’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in almost an entire year. 

Things finally felt like they were going places for him and the unfortunate price that he paid was leaving everything else behind. 

He had to leave everything behind. 

Life was good. 

Everything _was_ moving. Things _were_ going places. 

Until- 

Well. 

Ian thinks Caleb is cheating on him. 

It’s been nagging on his mind for the last few days, little moments of insecurity that flare up every now and then, insecurity that he’s so _sure_ there’s some quiet truth behind. Ian’s not an idiot. He knows cheating. 

He’s _been_ a cheater, and even though those days sit foggy and unbalanced in his memory, he still knows what that felt like. 

But, ever since that thought entered his mind, ever since he started looking at Caleb and their relationship in a new, different, ugly light, his dreams, more often that not, have been drifting towards the life he left behind. 

To Mickey and _before_. 

He’s been kidding himself, really and it’s a verdict he’s pretty much known all along - which is the worst fuckin’ part, almost. No matter how many times he’d try to convince himself, all the lies decorated as side comments, the feigned ignorance towards Mickey’s importance in his life, or the waved hand in dismissal when asked about his ex, he’s always been kidding himself. 

It was a crumbling castle of lies, a castle, he now knows, that was built on such weak foundations that it could ultimately do nothing but crumble into ruins. 

He misses Mickey. He misses being known. 

He misses _before_. 

Seeing Mandy months ago reassured him of that. The deep, burning sensation in his gut that’s been set on a low simmer for months assured him of that. The dreams, night after night, the soft touches, heart to heart, the souls intertwined… 

They _assure_ him of that. 

He and Mickey against the world. 

The way it was. The way it should be. The way it never can be. 

Instead though, he runs a hand down his tired face and sighs, 

“Just tired...”

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Fiona asks, keeping her voice warm. Except, like everything with Fiona, there’s the underlying sense of unease in her features, the crease in her forehead, the angle of her chin. It’s the stress of a lifetime worth of worrying about her siblings she can never quite shake from her bones, even now when they’re all mostly old enough to take care of themselves, that stress will never leave her, no matter how many facials she gets, massages she receives or paychecks that come through the post. 

Ian takes a sip of his now tepid coffee and swirls the liquid around his mouth whilst he contemplates. 

He swallows and wonders how to phrase it, “Do you… do you ever think about Mickey?” 

“Milkovich?” Fiona’s eyebrows shoot up - it’s a surprise, clearly, given how Ian’s avoided mentioning Mickey for the best part of a year, but she says his name said with a lightness that Ian doesn’t feel too put out about continuing. 

He shifts nervously, “What other Mickey is there?”

“I dunno, mouse?” 

“C’mon.” He says with an eye roll. 

“I mean, sure, think of him every once in a while…” Fiona says with a shrug, then her gaze shifts into something more curious, something more concerned, “Where is this coming from?” 

“Nowhere,” Ian doesn’t want to get into it, it’s too much to unpack and he knows Fiona won’t drop the questions once he begins, but… there’s a nagging at the back of his brain. He sighs, and gives in, “Dunno… think I just miss him a bit. That’s all.” 

Fiona pulls a face - something a little confused, surprised, maybe. Her lips twitch, and Ian watches her throat move as if she doesn’t know what to say, or how to approach his confession - and it’s okay, Ian doesn’t even know what he would want her to say. 

He’s tired, exhaustingly so almost, of feeling like this. 

“Doesn’t matter, really-” Ian starts after a moment of silence, he can’t do the _silence_ \- that’s when he starts thinking about _him_ , and when he pushes himself up from the table to leave, Fiona’s hand wraps around his wrist to keep him in place. 

He pauses and Fiona’s expression is strained. 

“Hey, don’t-” She starts, stops, thinks for a second, another painful second of silence, and then offers light heartedly, “It’s probably... _normal_ to miss an ex every once in a while.” 

Ian snorts humorously, if only it was every once in a while. 

If only Mickey was just an ex. 

If only it was that simple. 

If only Ian didn’t walk around every single day feeling like a thousand piece puzzle with one final, but crucial piece missing. 

He wants to tell Fiona this, he wants to yell it in her face and cry it into her side. 

But he can’t and Ian knows this. 

Because that part of his life is over. Mickey, at least outside of his dreams, is over. 

Because there’s no going back to their life from Before. 

Ian ruined that part of his life. Ian ruined Mickey. 

Caleb might be the one unfaithful in their relationship, but down the line it was probably Ian’s fault. Caleb must’ve sensed it and knew he had to get out and escape before Ian could ruin him too. 

Because that’s what he does. Ruin things. It’s his destiny, almost, decided by the fucked up chemical imbalance in his brain. 

“Yeah,” Ian says and plasters on a grim, fake smile. He squeezes Fiona’s shoulder and says with a tone as light as he can muster, “Guess you’re right.”

Then, he dumps his stone cold coffee in the sink, goes upstairs and passes out on his bed for 10 hours straight. 

He dreams of nothing at all. 

**v.**

Things aren’t right. 

Nothing _feels_ right. There’s an itch under his skin that he can’t quite scratch and it’s digging into his bones, his veins and dripping into his bloodstream. 

Ian didn’t sleep a wink last night - the thoughts racing through his brain at a mile a minute kept him tossing and turning. 

Trevor isn’t right. 

The world isn’t right. 

Hundreds of religious figures across the country forcing kids, young gay kids, kids just like him, just like Trevor, just like- 

Mickey. 

Kids like Mickey. Mickey who was forced through the _worst_. 

The worst. 

And Ian had to watch. 

Ian thinks about him all the time. Ian thinks about that day all the time. 

That. Day. 

A day that was so responsible for years of future torment, events only known by a handful of people, but the heavy significance of it has weighed down Ian’s every move since it occurred. 

He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and breathes, and breathes, and breathes. 

It’s getting harder to breathe. 

He sees Mickey in every single poor, lost kid that passes through the Youth Center. Every poor, lost kid he helps on the side of the road during an EMT shift. Every poor lost kid that responds to one of his… and _God_ , he doesn’t know how he got to this point, but one of his sermons. 

All the poor, lost kids. 

Ian only wanted to help. He only wanted to help and now it’s everywhere. It creeped into the corners of his life and buried itself there like an infestation in an old house that even the most advanced pest control can’t get rid of. All the darkness and pain, the long, endless suffering. It’s all floated to the surface. 

He drops his hands from his eyes and lets the black spots fade out of his vision. On the nightstand next to his bed, are three orange prescription bottles. 

Ian stares at them and thinks. 

There are good people in the world. 

Ian wants to be a good person so badly. 

He wants to save them all. 

He wanted to save Mickey. 

He wanted to save Mickey from it all. 

But he couldn’t. 

So he’s got to do this. 

He’s got to dedicate his life to saving these kids.

Because these poor, lost kids _are_ Mickey.

Because Mickey was once a poor, lost kid. 

Nothing has been same since Ian left him at the border, since _fuck you Gallagher_ , since he rode the cross country bus back home, his heart delicately cracked in his chest, and he found out his mother had _died_. 

He’s been walking a tightrope, carefully stepping toe to heel thousands of miles above the ground, for the last few months. 

But this, helping these kids, delivering the word of God, it’s the only thing since that feels the closest to what he’s supposed to be doing _._ His path. The right path. 

He couldn’t help Mickey then, but he can help Mickey now. 

Ian reaches over and plucks one of the prescription bottles from the side and rolls it between his hands. The pills inside rattle with the movement. 

There’s an imbalance somewhere. His tightrope has loosened. He can feel it.

Perhaps, one day soon, he may fall. 

It’s like he’s underwater - not deep enough to drown, but far enough from the ocean’s surface that there’s been a change of pressure. 

Ian feels the pressure. He can feel it in his bones, in his teeth, in his eyelashes. 

He looks at the pills and the pills look back at him. 

Pressure. 

An alarm goes off somewhere - his phone, perhaps? - and Ian pulls himself to his feet in a sluggish contrast to the electrical current flooding through him. 

His bible lays waiting on the side, positioned ironically next to the two other pill bottles and humorous, weak laugh catches in his throat. They mock him.

Ian knows he’s going to have to remember to put the bible in his bag for a session later. 

Pressure. 

The alarm still rings and eventually, he’ll find his phone and turn it off. 

He’s got to go to work now. 

**\+ 1**

Ian’s got everything under control. 

The idea had come to him a month or so ago, so he’s had this shit planned for _weeks_ \- he managed to get 2 days off work in a row for it, which took a couple of strings being pulled and he had to trade off a few days off next month, but it all came together eventually. 

He and Lip have been lugging party supplies into the house for the last hour. 

“Does Mick even like surprises?” Lip says, grinning as he dumps the two 6 packs of beer he’d been carrying onto the table. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead that glistens as he says, “I mean, he never seemed like the type of guy-”

“That’s just cause no one ever has _thrown_ him a surprise,” Ian says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and really, given how Mickey grew up in the Milkovich House of Horrors, it is. There were definitely no welcome surprises there. “Not a good surprise, at least.” 

“That’s depressin’ as fuck.” 

Ian sighs and gives a humorous chuckle, “Didn’t mean to get all… _dark_ but...yeah,” He crosses his arms over his chest, a little nervous, maybe and says, “That’s why I wanna do this.” 

Lip gives him an unsure look. 

“You sure he’s gonna like it?” 

“Nah, he’ll probably fuckin’ hate it,” Ian quips, letting his shoulders drop down in shrug. “But there’s gotta be a first for everything’ 

“If he’s pissed that’s on you-”

“Fuck you, it’s going to be fine,” Ian jabs his brother in the shoulder with a curled fist and walks over to the fridge, then with a casual wave of the hand says, “Anyways, if he fuckin’ hates it we’ll sneak off and bang.” 

Lip makes a noise at the back of his throat and trails off, “Don’t even wanna know...” 

Ian laughs, a breathy, amused little thing, and slides a can of coke over to Lip, then grabs one for himself and opens it with a _tss._

He chugs half out it down in one go, the sickly sweet liquid going down easily, then belches loudly. 

“Think he’ll like it though.” Ian says afterwards, retracting his last statement with a wipe across his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Sure, Mick might _pretend_ to hate it, in his way of _I don’t deserve anything good in my life_ , but Ian knows his husband. Ian knows his love. 

“Yeah?” Lip asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” Ian says, there’s something warm and bubbly in his gut when he thinks about it - and it’s not from the soda. Something else. Something certain. He continues, turning fully to face Lip with a lean against the fridge’s door, “I dunno. It’s just, we’ve never really, ya know, had the chance to celebrate birthdays together. Prison last year an’ we were apart for so long. I just… wanna make this one special.” 

Lip gives him a look, it’s fondness, love and exasperation all at once, then murmurs, “Fuckin’ soft.”

“Whatever,” Ian says, kicking his foot out at Lip’s shin, “S’what happens when you get married.” 

“ _Well_. We got one of Tami’s sisters’ to watch the kid, so we’ll be here tonight- whether it’s a success or if we have to stop the house from burnin’ down,” Lip says with a laugh, bringing the soda up to his lips and taking a slow, long swig. He then says a little cryptically after a second, “Is it weird?” 

“What?” 

“You know, you two,” Lip clarifies, which does nothing to clear up Ian’s confusion and he’s sure the pulled expression on his face shows as much. Lip continues, “The fact the two of you ended up together. Married and shit. That’s…” 

Lip smiles and looks up to the ceiling, then back down to Ian. 

He blows out a breath, “Man, if I could’ve told you at 16 that you’d be _Mr Milkovich_ -” 

Ian grabs an empty box of Pop Tarts, it’s the closest thing near him that won’t do some real damage, and launches it at Lip’s head. He misses, “Shut the fuck up, you know we’re not doin’ that shit.” 

“ _Still_ , the look on your face,” Lip smirks and brings the coke up to his lips and sips, then says after a moment, “Can’t believe you two fuckin’ made it.” 

Ian smiles at this because yeah, he can’t really believe it either. 

But then again, he can. 

“Always was gonna.” 

There’s a quiet skepticism in Lip’s voice when he asks, “Even when he was in prison or y’know, down in Mexico? You thought that shit was gonna work out?” 

Ian shrugs, then repeats, “Always was gonna.” 

Even when they were hundreds of miles apart, or separated by prison sentences - hell, even when Ian fucked off to the army, suffocated and heart broken, there was something inside him that always _knew_. 

He might not have always been in the place to acknowledge it and honestly, he beats himself up enough about the months he left Mickey behind in prison or his broken expression on the Gallagher’s front porch, the border, the courthouse… 

Fuck, he doesn’t even _know_ if he deserves this… but, he _thinks_ he does. 

He deserves to have the love that has been buried deep in his bones since the age of 15. 

Since, _I want the gun back, Mickey_. 

If there was anything Ian’s learnt from the years he and Mickey lost together, the years he floated through without him by his side, the years his heart was _Good_ but wasn’t _Great,_ is that he never wants to _miss_ him again. 

He never wants to feel that phantom loss of a limb, like someone’s hacked a piece off him, incomplete almost, and that’s the thing with his life now - with _their_ life now - he doesn’t have to. Ian never has to miss Mickey again and Mickey never has to miss Ian again. 

They stitched their hearts togethers as teens and armed themselves with what they could and fought wars to exchange their rings, vows and names. 

Lip must’ve sensed something wash over Ian, something heavier than what the moment called for, as when Ian opens his eyes, his brother has moved to a new spot standing in front of him. Lip looks at him for a moment, then slides his hands up his arms and holds him by the shoulders. 

“I’m proud of you,” Lip says, then pulls him close into a hug. Ian lets himself fall into it, the tension in his muscles draining as he leans into his brother’s hold, “Proud of Mickey too. Been tough for the two of you.” 

Ian nods wordlessly into his brother’s side - touched, almost, and brings a hand up to wipe at his stinging eyes. 

He doesn’t know what to say - if he can find it in himself to say anything at all - but luckily the expectation is broken by Carl and Debbie crashing through the backdoor with more party supplies and Franny following behind, her arms full of streamers. 

Soon the Gallagher house is full of people - it’s the usual lot, the family plus Kev, V and the kids - helping them set shit up for Mickey’s surprise party. Kev’s giving Carl a hand with slinging a banner across the entryway to the kitchen which reads _HAPPY FIRST GALLAGHER BIRTHDAY MICK_ in Kev’s dodgy hand writing, but Amy and Gemma have covered it with glitter and swirls from gel pens - so it works, in a quirky, childish way. 

Veronica rolled in a couple of kegs from The Alibi which she’s setting up outside with a hand from Sandy, Debs sorted out a cake that was dropped off on delivery this morning (Carrot - Mickey’s favourite, Debs had _rolled_ her eyes when she asked), Tami’s set up a table and a finger food buffet filled with all sorts of snacks outsides, Lip’s fired up a BBQ and Liam’s been blowing up balloons for the last hour or so… 

He’s hit by a wave of sudden gratitude for the people he loves. For the people that love him. For the people that love Mickey. 

Ian carries that with him as he drives over to pick Mickey up at the mall where he’s been working as security for the last few months. 

They’re hoping he picks up work somewhere else soon - somewhere more suited for their future, but for now, the simplicity of _mall security_ works. 

Mickey meets him outside on the sidewalk as usual, sliding into the passenger side whilst Ian waits at the lights so he doesn’t have to drive around the block to find somewhere to park. 

“Hey.” Mickey says, dropping a casual, automatic kiss to Ian’s cheek and pulling back to click himself in. 

“Hey yourself,” Ian grins. He keeps one hand on the wheel as he drives but twists his torso more so towards Mickey when he asks, “Wanna get a drink at The Alibi later?” 

Mickey yawns and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” 

“Tired?” Ian brings a hand up to the nape of Mickey’s neck and rubs slow, gentle circles with his thumb, “You ready to turn 26, old man?” 

“You’re barely even younger than me,” Mickey scoffs, but his voice is warm and fond. 

“Gonna have to find you one of those homes where they stick old people soon.” 

Mickey elbows Ian in the ribs. 

They keep up the age jokes throughout the ride home, and despite Mickey’s clear exhaustion from a day of work, he keeps his energy up and light - which is good, because he’s going to need it as soon as he steps through the threshold into the house. 

Poor guy doesn’t know what’s gonna hit him. 

Ian can’t wait. 

“You gonna need a hand gettin’ out, Grandad?” He asks, tipping his chin with a smirk as they turn into the Gallagher’s block, continuing the bit as he puts the car into park and brings them to a stop. “There’s some steps, you might need a hand gettin’ up.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, but still gives him as good as he’s getting, “You always did have a thing for the old men.” 

“Mhmm…” Ian replies, a little distractedly as he pulls out his phone and fires off a quick, but slightly panicked _OUTSIDE!!!_ text to Lip. He keeps the screen angled away from Mickey’s view until he gets the agreed upon thumbs up emoji as a reply. When he does, he drops his phone back into his lap and turns fully to face Mickey again.

“You good?” Mickey asks. 

Ian nods and slides his hand up to cup the back of Mickey’s head, the previous banter-ful energy dissolving into something more comfortable, something more sweet. They move in close automatically, noses bumping noses and Ian whispers against Mickey’s lips just before closing the gap between them, “C’mere.” 

They kiss for a moment, it’s closed mouthed but on the verge of something more. Mickey’s lips taste like sugar and cinnamon, and Ian smiles into the kiss when he realises that he must’ve snuck himself a pretzel at some point during the day. 

It goes on for a little while longer, the slow, melting, indulgent kisses and Ian finds himself biting back a reluctant sigh when he stops Mickey’s hand as it starts to edge towards his belt buckle. 

“Should go inside,” He mumbles a little breathlessly - didn’t mean to get this carried away, but with them it _is_ kinda inevitable. Ian knows, however, that there’s a whole load of people inside their house waiting for them to arrive. 

Mickey looks at him, his gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips, then offers,

“Not like we’ve never banged inside a car before.” 

Ian snorts, it’s true, “Come on, maybe I’ll give you a blowjob before we go back out again,” He says, giving Mickey a last quick peck before he opens the car door and climbs out. 

“Maybe, huh?” 

“If you’re lucky,” Ian makes a point of slamming the car door with more force than he usually would in hopes that someone inside picks up on it, even more so, he raises his voice slightly as he says, “Early present, maybe-” 

“That right?” Mickey says, ignorant to Ian’s signalling, and he leans into Ian’s side as they walk the short distance towards the house. 

Ian’s stomach clenches at the contact, his arm automatically winding itself around Mickey’s waist, and it’s overwhelming, almost, just how fuckin’ _nice_ is it to be able to touch Mickey, to have him at his side, to be happily fuckin’ married in the way they never thought they would get to be. 

Here he is, 24 and married. Seconds away from throwing a surprise party for the love of his fuckin’ life after years of distance, years of heartbreak, years of fuckin’ fighting just to get where they are now. 

Fighting just to be allowed to love. 

Maybe, just maybe, this might be the most important party Ian’s ever going to throw in his life.

They’ve missed too many moments with each other, too many hours spent hurting, too many birthdays left uncelebrated. 

No more. 

They celebrated Ian’s birthday back in May with a quiet night of pizza and beer with the rest of the family (and a long, long night of birthday sex, without the rest of the family) which _had_ been special and of course, they were together for their birthdays whilst locked up last year but there wasn’t much celebrating they could do aside from a quickie after lights out. 

But this is for Mickey. Mickey’s first Gallagher hosted birthday party. Mickey who didn’t grow up in a house like Ian did, who didn’t grow up with that assumed love and gratitude between family members who think about shit like throwing birthday parties for their siblings just because they can. 

Just because they _want_ to. 

Mickey, who once told Ian that the closest thing to a birthday present he’d ever get were the years that Terry actually forgot all together and left him alone the entire day. 

Mickey, who’s done nothing but unconditionally love Ian since the day that he finally allowed himself to. 

Mickey, who Ian loves so much and so deeply that the shit he feels for him is in every single thing that he does. Everything he watches, listens to and reads. 

Hundreds of years worth of love songs, stories and poetry, and yet every single one of them was written with Mickey Milkovich in mind. 

He’s gonna love him till he fuckin’ dies. 

Ian twists his key in the lock and braces himself. 

Everything goes off without a hitch and Mickey is sufficiently surprised when everyone jumps out at them from the darkened corners of the living room at their entrance - Carl had remembered to turn the lights off, thankfully - and he smacks an arm into Ian’s side when he finally realises what’s happening. 

“ _Jesus fuckin’ Christ_ ,” 

And after the moment of initial confusion dies down and his automatic scowl slowly breaks into a teeth-y smile that’s so fucking wide it makes Ian _glow_ on the inside, Mickey tells the room, “You fuckin’ scared the shit out of me.” 

Then, “Let’s get this fuckin’ party started!” Kev calls, his hands cupped around his mouth and voice booming from his place in the kitchen, and the music’s being turned up and cold beers are being pressed into their hands. 

It takes a while for Mickey to warm into it, for his shoulders to drop and his muscles to loosen, but once he changes out of his work uniform and chugs down his first beer, things start to get going. 

Ian steps back for the first hour or so, hanging around the corners of the room, bobbing his head along to the beat and sipping slowly at his drink. He talks with Lip and plays with Franny for a bit, but mostly he spends the first hour watching his husband _enjoy_ himself. 

After a while though, Ian watches as Mickey twists himself around with a stumble, presumably surveying the room to find him, then grinning, a huge fuckin’ thing, when he finally does. 

“What ya doin’ over here?” Mickey mumbles, sliding into Ian’s side against the kitchen counter where he’s been situated for the last 20 minutes. His voice is warm and a little slurred, he’s clearly happily buzzed and it makes Ian’s heart stutter with fondness. 

Ian knocks his hip against Mickey’s and answers with a playfully formal voice, “Celebratin’...it’s my husband’s birthday, you see.” 

Mickey raises his eyebrows then steps right in front of Ian, “Mhmmm…” His hands trace the sides of Ian’s ribs, slowly dusting in an up and down motion, then lowers his voice, “This husband of yours...he around here?” 

Ian snorts, unimpressed at the attempt at a joke, and shoves at Mickey’s chest with a flat palm. 

“ _Fuckin’_ _idiot_.”

Mickey responds with a smirk and leans in, closing the gap between them in a warm, open mouthed kiss. 

Ian’s fuckin’ idiot. 

They dance to the shitty playlist someone created - a mess of pop, then rock, then disco, then jazz - they eat hot dogs straight from the grill with onions, mustard and ketchup, licking the sauce from their fingers as they do. Mickey even gets talked into blowing out the candles on the cake Debs pulled together without so much as a grumble - even when they start singing a loudly cheerful chorus of happy birthday. 

At the countdown to midnight - to Mickey’s official birthday - they all gather down in the garden, popping streamers and cheering when the day finally changes and Mickey’s declared another year older. 

Ian kisses him three minutes into his new age and Mickey’s lips taste like BudLite and frosting. 

The clock gets closer to 1am and things start to wind down - not completely, though, but enough to keep the neighbours at bay. The slow medley of pop songs play through the speakers on a low volume and most of the action has situated itself back into the living room, with everyone slumped over various different surfaces as they finish off their drinks and pass around a joint or two. 

He leaves Mickey in deep conversation on the couch with Carl, talkin’ some shit about something or other, and carries Franny upstairs to bed when his uncle duties kick in. She’s been nodding off slowly in the armchair for the best part of the last hour and Debs is nowhere to be seen (Neither is Sandy, he realises, but quickly decides not to dwell on that). Franny’s pretty much dead to the world when he lays her down in her own bed. He tucks her in and waits a moment at the end of the bed until her breathing evens out and he can be sure she won’t stir, before saying goodnight with a kiss to the forehead, taking a piss, then heading back downstairs. 

Mickey has managed to move from where Ian left him in the few minutes he was away and Carl catches his confused eye, then gestures smoking a cigarette with a flick of his wrist. 

He tips his head towards the front door, “Mick’s gone outside.”

“Thanks.” 

Mickey’s sitting on the top step of the porch, lit by the hot August moon as he smokes slowly, gray clouds ascending from his lips into the warm air. He doesn’t turn around when Ian opens the front door, but his shoulders hitch upwards slightly in acknowledgement. 

Ian drops down next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into his side. Mickey makes a pleased noise at the movement. 

“Mhmm,” Mickey exhales, then shifts an inch closer and says a little tiredly, “Hoped it was gonna be you comin’ out.” 

Ian presses a kiss to the curve of his neck, then pulls back to ask, “Have a good party?” 

“S’alright,” Mickey sighs, tapping away the ash onto the porch’s wood, then brings the cigarette back up to his lips, “Ain’t got nothin’ to compare it to so, ranks pretty high in my books.” 

“But you had fun, yeah?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

They sit there in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette between them, breathing in each other’s exhaled smoke. 

The music is still audible from inside the house, and someone laughs - Tami possibly, and Ian feels a small smile form on his face. Things couldn’t have turned out any better this evening and really, that’s all Ian can ask for. 

He’s got Mickey by his side, their family having a good time inside and a whole lot of love to share between them. 

All the years they’ve lost, all the goodbyes, all the reunions, it’s all led up this. 

All the pain. All the shit. 

It was all worth it. 

Worth it to be sat here on his front porch, 24 and married, ringing in his husband’s new year with a shared cigarette and the summer’s comfortable warmth.

“I…” Ian looks up at Mickey’s voice, his face is soft edged and gentle in the moonlight. There’s something a little sad about his expression. “Mom tried. I guess, when she was around. But we never used to get this shit, y’know? Birthdays, parties.”

Ian reaches over and places a hand on Mickey’s knee, keeping his voice steady when he whispers with as much conviction he can muster, 

“You do now.”

And he means it. 

He’ll mean it for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i hope you're all staying safe and healthy. wear a mask, friends! 
> 
> find me on [ twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian)/[ tumblr (fic) ](https://oforamuse.tumblr.com)/[ tumblr (main) ](https://matteoamiras.tumblr.com)


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